


Lessons

by BanimalQ



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Post S3, S4 doesn't exist, Sad sad sad, just a lot of pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 09:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10851012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanimalQ/pseuds/BanimalQ
Summary: Sherlock had learned that there are moments that can drastically change the course of your life





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple of years ago and never posted it for some reason. Tonight I am a bit maudlin so I dug this out of the cobwebs. Enjoy, preferably with a glass of wine and a cookie.

**Changing Course**

Sherlock had learned that there are moments that can drastically change the course of your life. He learned this much too late, not being one who thought on such things before The Fall. It wasn’t until he found himself alone at 221B surrounded by folded napkins and seating charts that he realized, though he had accomplished his goal, his life could never go back to how it had been before, the life that he had with John Watson. 

The thought of John and Baker Street had been his only comfort during the long nights that had stretched infinitely in front of him while he was dismantling Moriarty’s web. He would spend endless hours of waiting in his Mind Palace, wandering the rooms that held his memories of John. He would look over each detail, keeping notes separately of each fact he needed to check when they were reunited. It was as if his memories of John had become a crime scene, and Sherlock had to turn over each piece of evidence looking for clues, for anything he may have missed.

Sherlock found his mind would start to wander; he would no longer be looking over the facts. When this became a regular occurrence, he created a new section in his Mind Palace. It was a replica of 221B. It didn’t hold memories, but plans and hopes and dreams. In this flat the upstairs room was a lab, here Sherlock would place the future experiments he needed to conduct. He now knew that he had an incomplete index of torture techniques. John would come home with the shopping and kiss him on the forehead as he made his way to the kitchen. They would sit on the sofa, cuddling together to watch crap telly. At night Sherlock would always go to bed with John in their room. 

Though Sherlock knew the reasons why he had lied to John it still took all of his willpower to keep from calling him or standing across the street from their flat when he was back in London hunting down a lead. Sherlock needed John safe and whole, so when this was all over they could go back to their life together. He had decided he would tell John everything, not just about Moriarty and his time away, but the feelings that he had been hiding, both from himself and John, for so long. Sherlock wasn’t fool enough to think that John would welcome him with open arms. He knew that he would have to work to gain John’s trust and affection. He was ready for that. He was willing to do whatever it took to be with John.

He wasn’t ready to hear that John had moved out of 221B Baker Street. He wasn’t ready to see John going over his proposal to another person at the restaurant. He wasn’t ready to go home alone, face bloody and bruised, heart torn into small jagged pieces. 

And so he found himself perched on the back of his chair. Details for a wedding that he had planned surrounding him, drowning him in the knowledge that it would never be for him and John. Realizing the course he had set coming back had been demolished before he had even begun. As he stood and gazed at John’s empty chair, he realized what his new course was. 

_Right then, into battle._

The way was clear now. He would be there for John, however John would allow it. Even though it tore his heart open. He had done worse to John, he knew that now. This was his penance. 

 

**Making Peace**

Sherlock had learned that there are moments that bring you peace with your past which allow you to move forward. He learned this slowly, needing many opportunities to see the possibility before accepting the truth. It wasn’t until he found himself watching a sleeping Victor Trevor, in their bed in their flat, that he realized he could be happy making a future with someone who was not John Watson.

Sherlock hadn’t thought of the man in over a decade, but there he was, sitting at a table in view of the door at Angelo’s. He knew Mycroft must be behind this “chance” encounter yet he barely spared a thought of hate towards his brother. Victor had been stunning in uni, and now he was even more so. His dark hair and beard littered with gray, giving him an air of sophistication he hadn’t had in uni. If his physical appearance wasn’t enough to catch your attention then his personality would do the trick. People would flock to him in uni, preening about for his attention, and yet somehow it had been Sherlock who caught it. 

Well, Victor’s dog caught a hold of Sherlock’s ankle first. Everything had been easy after that. Victor was amazed by Sherlock’s deductions. They would sit on the lawn and Victor would pick out people for Sherlock to deduce. Time spent together between classes soon stretched to meals and conversations late into the night. 

No one had ever shown an interest in Sherlock beyond schoolyard bullying, being the smartest and youngest in class would make that certain. Victor's friendship was beyond what Sherlock could have hoped for. The day Victor took Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him was beyond comprehension. 

They had been in Sherlock's room, studying for an exam. Sherlock looked up from the textbook to see Victor staring at him intently. Everything seemed at once in slow motion and fast forward. Their lips colliding. It didn't take Victor long to pull back from Sherlock's frozen face, apologizing for reading into things. As Victor gathered his books to leave, Sherlock blurted out that he had never been kissed before, a blush blooming across his face and neck. He took their books and set them aside, pulling Victor back to the bed. That night Victor gave Sherlock several more firsts. 

Things ended amicably after graduation, as relationships do when one partner has been destined to work in family business overseas and the other won’t leave London. So when Sherlock saw Victor sitting at his table he didn't huff and leave in a swirl of Belstaff while cursing Mycroft, he continued in and sat down, ordering the most expensive bottle of wine. 

It was easy falling back into a relationship with Victor. Sherlock had always thought of him as a friend first. That first dinner after so many years was a bit awkward at times. The familiarity of each other worn away just enough to leave them on edge. The next dinner was easier, spilling over into a nightcap at Baker Street. It evolved much like it had in their youth. 

Picking up a physically intimate relationship a bit harder. Sherlock had ignored the impulses of his body after Victor. Seeing no reason to look for something that would pale in comparison to their relationship. Then an army doctor came into Sherlock’s life and he had begun to dream of small hands in his. A scar from a bullet to investigate. Leaning down to kiss thin and always slightly chapped lips with his. The first time after reuniting that Victor placed his large hand on his back as they walked through a crowd Sherlock jumped as if burned. He would duck his head when Victor would lean in to try for a kiss goodnight. He couldn't take his eyes off of their entwined hands reaching across the dining table, Sherlock's almost engulfed in Victor's impossibly large hand.

There was no rush. Victor was content with what Sherlock could give and Sherlock never pushed for more. Then one night, Sherlock woke from a dream. It was the first time he hadn’t been dreaming of John.

Sherlock started being more physical with Victor after that. Holding hands on the sofa, letting his hand linger on Victor’s leg. Victor took it slow, reciprocating Sherlock’s actions, leaving space for him to make the next move. A bottle of scotch preceded their first kiss (this time around). Sherlock not quite brave enough to try it sober. It ended with Sherlock straddling Victor’s lap, grinding against him, tears streaming down his face as they kissed.

Victor knew about John. Sherlock never mentioned him, but between Mrs. Hudson and the internet, he had a good idea of what had happened. That night Sherlock told him everything. He told him all the things that he had been planning to say to John when he came back, before the wedding, before Appledore, before the tarmac. He expected Victor to leave, to tell Sherlock he wouldn’t be his second choice. Instead Victor held him as he cried, ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he confessed his secrets, and whispered ‘ _oh baby’_ in his ear.

It was still a struggle. At crime scenes he would still turn to ask John his opinion, though he hadn’t accompanied him on a case since Appledore. In the long hours of boredom he would find himself talking to John, running through facts from a case, not realizing what he was doing until his questions were left hanging in the still air of the flat, not to be answered. The flat on Baker Street was haunted with John Watson’s ghost, Sherlock was sure of it. He could hear the rasp of the razor in the bathroom, quiet footsteps in the room upstairs.

The day Victor suggested they move in together, to find a flat of their own, found Victor drinking at the local pub alone and Sherlock with a needle in his arm. When Victor found Sherlock a few days later in John’s room, high and filthy, he packed a bag and took Sherlock to his flat, phoning Mycroft on the way. 

_Please don’t do this again, promise me, Sherlock. I love you. I am never going to leave you. Promise me._

_I promise._

It was easier then, to let Victor take the lead. It wasn’t that he had given up, it was that Sherlock realized that he didn’t have to put up a fight. He let Mycroft find a new flat for them since neither were interested in searching the classifieds. 

And so it was a lazy morning — no cases on, no meetings scheduled — that Sherlock found himself awake, lying in bed, watching Victor sleep. He realized that though this wasn’t the life he had envisioned during the time that he was gone, this was his life, and it was a life where he loved and was loved in return.

 

**Finding Home**

Sherlock had learned that there are moments that bring you back home. He learned this in an instant, his eyes locking with deep blue eyes that he hadn’t seen in years. It was in that moment he knew that home would always be with John Watson.

Time had passed. Years, decades. Life had gone on. He didn’t think that would happen in those months after John’s wedding. Not only had it gone on, but it had been good. Victor had given Sherlock what he needed and Sherlock gave him what he could. At first it hadn’t been much, but by the end, it had been everything.

They bought a home in Sussex. Neither man could retire completely from work, so they kept their flat in London. The seasons dictated where they spent most of the time. The Work hadn’t meant as much without John, so slowly Sherlock pursued other dreams, research that had been neglected and bees.

Victor died on a Thursday. Sherlock wasn’t one for keeping track of what day of the week it was since retirement. He would have deleted it if it had been possible. However that morning he read the paper in the cafeteria of the hospital. It was sitting on the table, abandoned. It had been months since he’d bothered to read a paper, so he picked it up and played a game long forgotten. After solving three cases and discovering five more that no one but the perpetrators knew about, Sherlock stood, folded paper under his arm, and walked back to the room that Victor had been in for too long, intending to show off a bit to entertain Victor. The room was silent when he walked through the door. A lone nurse stood by the bed waiting for him. He never said _goodbye_ , or _I love you_ , or _thank you for saving me when I was so alone_. 

He left London for good. Selling the flat. Getting rid of anything that reminded him of Victor. Sherlock thought that after thirty years he wouldn’t miss the man so much when he was gone. But he did. God did he miss him. 

Sussex was boring. The bees were never quite as impressed with his research and deductions as he thought they should be. There were moments when he thought of ending it. But he had made a promise to Victor and he would keep it, it was the least he could do for the man.

He took long walks, through the countryside, along the cliffs. Usually with no purpose, though he would never admit that. It was one such day, sunny and warm with a slight breeze, he found himself on the cliffs. Just passing time. Waiting for the sun to set so he could go home and wait for the sun to rise. He saw a figure in the distance, standing still, looking out over the horizon, unmoving. As he neared, the figured turned to face him straight on. A man, shorter than the average British male, standing with a cane in his hand.

_They told me I might find you out here._

_Have you been waiting long?_

_A lifetime._

There are moments in your life when find home again. For Sherlock Holmes it was atop chalk cliffs, on his knees, arms wrapped around John Watson that he found home again.


End file.
